


The Red Door

by ZaliaChimera



Category: A Study in Emerald - Neil Gaiman, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Anthropomorphism - Freefom, Crossover, Insanity, Lovecraftian, M/M, Mind Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-13
Updated: 2010-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:09:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Queen's Jubilee approaches. America dreams of a different world, France indulges his baser desires and Albion indulges them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Red Door

**Author's Note:**

> Title: The Red Door  
> Fandom: Hetalia  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Pairings: England, France and America in various combinations. Explicit England/France, Significant England/America.  
> Warnings: Graphic sex, slightly disturbing themes  
> Notes: This is a crossover of Hetalia with the Neil Gaiman short story 'A Study in Emerald' which is itself a fusion of Sherlock Holmes and Lovecraft.

"I've been having these strange dreams," America murmured, as Albion's fingers carded through his hair. He turned his head in Albion’s lap to look up at him with blue eyes deep as the seas and his pale pale skin looked almost translucent against the deep crimson of Albion’s bedspread. "Where there are no monarchs, only men. A world full of humans and nothing else and where I can only walk on land. Only need to walk on land."

Albion's fingers ran lightly over the small silver scales which followed the line of America’s hips, down powerful legs to toes which were slightly webbed. They felt smooth and familiar against the pads of his fingers. "They're just dreams, my dear boy," he said with more confidence than he felt. "The world is as it is and humans are not suited for ruling themselves. The Great Ones know best." Humanity would never have achieved such glory without the Great Ones to guide them; there would be no grand steamers or the railways which threaded across his empire like veins. They would still be barbarians if not for Them, and yet…

He remembered strong kings and blazing warrior queens and Rome’s great empire, built by human hands and only human hands. He had seen the great buildings and the alabaster perfection of Rome’s statues when his name had been Britannia and Albion just an unquiet whisper in his mind. And Rome’s rulers, his great emperors, had been but men of flesh and blood.

He shook his head lightly. Seditious nonsense, all of it. The stuff that desperate revolutionaries called out on street corners before the police rightly dragged them away to the mad house.

“Mmmm.” America made a sleepy noise of agreement, drawing Albion’s attention back to the man sprawled out on the bed with him. “Just weird that they were so vivid I guess. I normally don’t remember my dreams and when I do they’re entirely banal. It just stuck with me for some reason.” He yawned widely, stretching, muscles sliding sinuously beneath his skin. It made Albion’s mouth go dry.

“If they become a problem, I have a tincture that I can give you,” Albion replied thoughtfully, regarding him with deep green eyes.

America grimaced at the suggestion, shaking his head emphatically. “You know that I don’t like laudanum.”

“It isn’t laudanum,” Albion replied. “It is from Australia. A special herb or some such thing. Some of the natives there use it to clear their minds before they go into trances. It might help to clear such fanciful visions from your head.”

America grins, all sharp silver teeth in the candlelight. “I can think of better things to do to clear my head than strange weeds.”

“I daresay that you can, my boy,” Albion said, a smile curving his lips slowly. America leaned up to kiss him, lips soft and cool against his own, tasting thickly of sea salt.

\----------

Albion met France outside his fashionable house in Park Square. The Novemeber drizzle damped down his hair, plastering it against his skull and darkening it to the colour of thick honey. He never wore a hat, no matter how fashionable. Albion could remember a time when France would have sulked and bemoaned the inclement weather. He never did anymore. He seemed content to let the rain drench him, slick his skin like oil and ruin the fine clothes that he would once have treasured.

France smiled when he saw him approach, pulling away from where he had been leaning on the wall. _Like some lurking footpad,_ Albion thought sourly.

“Albion!” he said, and he could hear the teeth in it. “Her majesty is most gracious in permitting you to accompany me.”

“Hmph, don’t think anything of it,” Albion huffed, peering up at the grey sky for a moment before turning his attention to France once more. “It would just look bad if you got your throat cut while sating your lusts with Albian whores.”

France slid an arm around his waist and Albion scowled darkly at him. It was, as predicted, soundly ignored. “But _mon cher_ , you know that is only temporary and it is so much more enthralling to hunt them down when they believe that they are safe.”

“ _I’ll_ cut your sodding throat if you don’t unhand me, bastard.”

A bright smile curls France’s lips, and it is hungry and wanting. “So you would let me hunt you down, is that it, my dear Albion?” France purred, pressing his lips against Albion’s ear, breath making him shiver. France’s sharp fingers dug hard into Albion’s hip. “I would very much like that.”

Albion dug his elbow hard into France’s side, making the other nation wince and draw away, just a little. “Stop twisting my words you uncouth toad,” he growled, grabbing France’s wrist and forcefully dislodging it. He continued several steps along the street, leaving a good distance between himself and France before he turned back. “Now, you have an appointment do you not? You know how they hate it when you are late for this manner of… entertainment.”

France straightened up and brushed off his frock coat with an exaggerated motion, casting Albion a sour sideways look. “Indeed,” he said, somewhat haughtily. “And unlike _les Albians_ , the French do not keep their hosts waiting when they have appointments. We have better manners.”

“You just have nothing better to do,” Albion retorted with a smirk. “Haven’t you heard of being fashionably late?”

“Of course,” France replied. “I invented the idea.”

“You’re contradicting yourself, frog.” Albion snorted, letting France catch up to him and enduring the hand around his waist once more.

“But I would not be quite so enticing to you if I were not so intriguing,” he purred.

Albion rolled his eyes. “Keep telling yourself that. You might even convince yourself one of these days.”

“Ah, but I already have. And you, Albion, are my next target.”

“You’ll be waiting a while then.”

France smirked, a shadowy expression. “Ah, but we have all the time in eternity.”

\----------

The brothel was one of those which catered to the better class of patrons; the wealthy and the ennobled, those able to pay and pay well for what they wanted, rather than picking up any harlot off the street corner. It was located discretely on a back street, an unassuming building which one would pass without a second glance if you did not know what it truly was. The only outward sign of anything less than respectable was the door, painted a bright crimson. The whores were clean and well fed, their clothing in a good state of repair and if any of them wore bruises like jewellery, then no-one made mention of it. As long as their skin wasn’t pock-marked and filthy, then why should one care?

It made the girl that they brought to France’s room stand out all the more starkly when compared to the other whores.

Her clothing was ragged and cheap and her hair fell in untamed rings around her head. Albion swore that he could count her ribs even through her clothing. She was vaguely attractive, might even have been pretty before time and care had taken their toll, but that must have been a decade or more ago. Still, it was possible to see the remains of her ragged looks in his face. He regarded her coolly, wondered which part of the docklands she’d been dragged from for the purpose of this little excursion, and bit down on the part of himself that was trying to care.

France himself seemed delighted, kissed her knuckles, stroked her filthy hair until she smiled shyly at him. It made her look about ten years younger and a good deal prettier, although still nowhere near France’s usual standards. He preferred pretty young things with pouty lips and curves, or boys with hairless bodies and slim chests when he wanted to bed a human, not the kind of woman you could buy for a crust of bread.

Albion waited outside as France guided the woman into the rented room. She went willingly. They always did because who could resist France’s golden beauty, his easy charm? Albion leaned back against the wall, refusing all offers of refreshment or entertainment of his own. They did not press too hard, mostly avoiding meeting his eyes and skittering past him when they had to. It was more than just respect for a rich client and part of Albion felt vaguely sickened at the idea that they knew what he was, what he could do, what he was here for.

Another part of him thrilled at it.

The first scream from the bedroom took even him by surprise. It was a piercing sound, a shriek of pure terror rather than any kind of pleasure. It sent a shiver down his spine, the terror seeping from the room like a physical thing, tendril thin, coiling around him delicately. A few moments of silence and then another shriek and oh, he could just imagine what was going on in that room. France would be there of course, pressing her back against the bed, kissing along her jaw, undressing her gently, soothing her with sweet words, like a lover, making her feel at ease and comfortable. Making her believe that he loved her, that he would save her from her pathetic life and all she had to do was spend the night with him. She’d never notice that his eyes were too hard, his skin a little too cold.

Another scream, louder this time, but gurgling off at the end, strangled out and he imagined France’s slender hands around her throat, holding her still, squeezing as he forced her to look into depthless blue eyes. Inhuman eyes, so old, so _hungry_. She’d look into them, into _him_ and she’d never see anything else, never again.

Despite himself, Albion moaned softly, dropping a hand to the front of his trousers, rubbing lightly over the growing bulge there. She was terrified, he could feel it even without seeing her. It was thick in the air, cloying and sweet against his tongue, the screams and sobs carrying it out into the hallway.

A harsh shriek punctuated the opening of the first button of his trousers, and his fingers trembled slightly as he pushed his hand down inside his undergarments, lightly brushing over his half-hard cock. It made him hiss softly, breath sliding between his teeth. Another pained cry from the room and he gasped, wrapping his kid-gloved fingers around his cock, the soft leather warm and pliant against his skin as he began to stroke himself.

Manic laughter, France’s voice, and Albion threw his head back against the wall, eyes dropping shut as he fondled himself, flicking the tip of his thumb over the head of his cock, dipping back to rub against his balls, the leather of his gloves becoming sweaty and sticky and he didn’t care in the slightest for once, just drank in the harsh emotions from the room, drank and drank and drank, glutting himself on the heightened emotions, on the _fear_.

A blood-curdling scream that just made his hand speed up, and then a strange heavy silence which permeated the air. Albion stilled his hand, peering over at the door as France emerged. There was a smug, satisfied expression on his face, sated even, and long fingernail gouges down his jaw and neck, sluggishly bleeding. He didn’t seem to care.

”What is this?” he purred, voice honey thick as he pressed his hand against the front of Albion’s trousers, squeezing slightly and eliciting a grunt from Albion’s lips. Over France’s shoulder, Albion could see the mistress of the house slip nervously into the room. “You enjoyed this little encounter?”

“Shut up,” Albion snarled, only for it to be cut off with a moan as a wave of second-hand fear washed over him. He could feel France tense against him, made his mouth go dry.

“I do not understand why you do not indulge yourself, Albion,” France said, concern marring his pretty face for just a moment, before the drowsy-eyed look returned to it. “Ah, but allow me to assist you.”

He slid to his knees, a smooth, practised motion, nuzzling his face against the crotch of Albion’s trousers. “You are so uptight, even now,” France murmured as he gently extricated Albion’s hand from inside his trousers, pulling them down just enough to free his cock.

“I don’t feel any need to debase myself with whores,” he growled, bringing his hand down to fist into France’s hair, tangling the golden strands around his fingers.

France just hummed softly, leaning forward and flicking his tongue out against the tip of Albion’s cock, making the other Nation gasp-jerk against him. France grinned, letting Albion’s cock rub against his cheek until Albion tugged insistently at his hair. France obliged, opening his mouth and letting the tip of Albion’s cock slip between his lips, sucking lightly.

The clatter of feet on the stairs and Albion tore his gaze away from the golden head below him, watching as the asylum men in their clean white coats arrived. They paid no attention to Albion and France, beyond wary glances. Albion turned a lazy, hungry grin in their direction, pulling France further down onto his cock, eyes dropping half closed as he felt the other man coke slightly, Albion’s grip never loosening.

France’s tongue curled around his shaft and Albion thrust shallowly into his mouth, losing himself in the heat of it and the sharp tang of horror that coiled around him. He pressed back against the wall, feeling the thumps from inside the room as something struck again and again, a brutal counterpoint to his thrusts.

A harsh noise escaped him as he came, the door slamming open fingers holding France’s head still footsteps on the stairs spilling into his mouth girl in a black hood to cover her mad mad eyes as the asylum took her France’s lips sucking and licking, drawing the last of his orgasm out of him.

Albion slumped back against the rough wall, biting down on his lips to stifle the noises which threatened to escape him as France greedily licked him clean, hot tongue lapping at his softening flesh.

“Indeed, the Albian whores are most… satisfactory,” France purred, looking up at him with predatory lust-glazed eyes.

Albion snarled, baring his teeth at France in an inhuman expression. He dug his fingers into France’s scalp, wrenching him to his feet to devour his mouth, nipping and biting and licking up the blood that he drew. France gave as good as he got, pinning him against the wall, their hips rocking against each other. He could feel France hard against him, could taste terror on France’s tongue where he’d kissed that girl.

They did not leave the brothel until dawn broke the horizon.

\----------

“Come to bed Albion,” America said, leaning against the back of Albion’s chair, wrapping strong scaled arms around his shoulders, nuzzling against Albion’s hair lightly. The firelight cast eerie shadows across the walls which stretched and flickered with every movement. “I can’t believe that you’re embroidering now of all times,” he added airily, rolling his eyes as he glanced at the hoop on Albion’s lap.

“Arse,” Albion replied with a soft snort. “Just because you do not appreciate the fine art of it…” His fingers smoothed across silk thread, grey and black and blue, a lowly approximation of that which could never be described.

“You can embroider any time,” America replied, nipping Albion’s throat lightly, his teeth sharp and cold.

“In a few moments, my sweet” Albion replied firmly, turning his head, pressing a kiss to the fragile webbing between America’s thumb and forefinger. It made the younger Nation shiver pleasantly and Albion drank in the motion, clamping down hard on the desire to just shove him up against the wall and taste and tease.

“He is right, mon Albion,” France called. He was already sprawled out on the bed, shamelessly nude. “You should enjoy yourself before the _horreur_ of the Jubilee organisation begins.”

"Yeah!" America agreed, flashing France a brilliant smile. He slid his arms around Albion, starting to drag him to his feet with his monstrous strength, handling him as though he were nothing. "Come on! I can't believe that you'd put stuffy embroidery before a night spent in the company of a gorgeous man. Oh, and France will be there too."

" _Amerique!_ " France said, followed by a string of French curses. America just laughed, pulling Albion close.

"Unhand me you great idiot!" Albion snapped, struggling against America's strong grip.

"Not until you join us," America replied, sliding his hand beneath the bottom of Albion's shirt, rubbing over his stomach lightly.

Albion shivered, but stilled America's hand, rubbing his thumb over the jut of bone in his wrist lightly. “I shall join you presently,” he replied earnestly but firmly. “But I do want to finish this for Her. It is a gift.” And he would hate for it to be unfinished on the special day.

America paused for a moment at that, then nodded, quieting at the mention of Albion’s boss. It was a different matter with Them. They all adored their bosses. How could they not love Them? He pressed a kiss to Albion's lips, then reluctantly stepped away. “Fine. If you’re going to be boring then, old man” he teased, crossing to the bed, letting France pull him into the circle of his arms. Albion watched for a long moment, skin pressed against each other, scales and sweat in the firelight. He could feel his body reacting, but forced it down, turning his attention back to the task at hand.

He peered down at the tapestry that he was embroidering, reaching blindly for his sewing basket, pulling out a dark emerald green thread. It was an old old scene that he was embroidering, much exaggerated and fabricated over the centuries, but there was truth at his core and that was what mattered.

A stormy beach beneath a black sky, the lightning striking twisted trees. And out of the ocean They had come, _She_ had come, bringing Her glory to him. Beneath them, mortals and Nations alike had trembled. It was strange to remember how difficult he had found it to look upon Her then, his glorious, magnificent Queen, when now he could not imagine a life without Her.

He picked up his needle, beginning to add the final touches with the emerald thread, clever fingers moving quickly and surely even as the two on the bed writhed and moved against each other, their breath coming harsh and ragged.

He could still remember the words that She had spoken to him, on that day so long ago, when Her voice had first echoed through his soul, guiding and changing him. He would never forget those words.

He winced as the needle pricked his finger, sighed at his clumsiness as he drew it to his mouth, absently sucking away the green fluid, tasting copper and salt on his tongue.

 _Your kind,_ She had said, on the night when They had risen from their sleep to take charge of a mad world, when She had first touched him with her glory, _your kind are more our kin than you are kin to humans._

He finished the last few tiny stitches, set aside thread and hoop and went to join his brethren.


End file.
